Whiskey is for two kinds of people: old men and those who hate themselves and this leaves Thrall to wonder; What secrets lie beneath her smiling surface? Inspired by a prompt on the Warcraft Kink Meme.

Thrall paced his quarters, exasperated. In a way, he had just made both the best and worst slip up of all time.

He replayed it over and over in his mind, cursing how such words could so easily fall from his lips, words that had the capability to cause wars if they fell upon the proper ears. But the ears they fell upon were not attached to just anyone. Those ears belonged to Jaina Proudmoore. And Jaina was probably the last person he had wanted to hear those words, but for entirely different reasons.

They had been seated around a small fire on a butte above Razor Hill, alone, long since leaving the banner of formality behind. They would talk, sometimes about the legitimate problems with which any leader was faced, but more and more frequently their conversations drifted into less serious waters. And Jaina always brought whiskey.

To be honest, Thrall had never pegged Jaina to be the whiskey type. He'd always imagined her sitting in her tower, surrounded by books and paperwork, glass of some red tincture in hand. The sight of her that first evening was quite surprising; two bottles of the amber liquid grasped between her fingers and a mischievous smile upon her lips.

He laughed, "I didn't think whiskey was quite your style."

"When one has problems as daunting as ours, Thrall, wine just doesn't seem to cut it."

Thrall always had quite a hard time with the human-sized shot glasses, much to Jaina's amusement, and after losing them time and time again she finally stopped bringing them, opting instead to drink it straight from the bottle.

This night had been no different.

The fire had cast a yellow glow onto their faces, but the whiskey had brought a light to their eyes. Their conversation had yet again drifted away from whatever it was that they were talking about (Northrend? Warsong Gulch? He couldn't remember) and found itself on the topic of love lives.

Jaina and Thrall were good friends; topics like this haven't been awkward to them for some time now. However, this topic usually entailed Jaina letting out her feelings about her past loves and Thrall providing the sturdy shoulder to cry on. He wasn't expecting her to turn the tables on him.

"Well?" She asked impatiently, the alcohol mistaking his thoughtful silence for refusal to answer.

"What would you have me say? It's not very dramatic or interesting."

Jaina's eyebrow quirked in disbelief and she motioned for him to continue.

"My relationships, they just never end up working out."

He could hear her bite back a chuckle as she turned to put a hand on his shoulder. He supposed the look upon her face was supposed to be of concern, but she was failing spectacularly.

"Might it be, Warchief," She said in an overly dignified tone," that you are lousy in the sack?"

Thrall cracked a brief half-smile at his own expense, before casting a sidelong glance at his companion. In the same dignified, but deeper, tone he replied:

"I assure you, Miss Proudmoore, they enjoyed themselves. Thoroughly."

She raised an eyebrow and appraised him in a quite comical manner, but as she began to speak her tone became more serious.

"In all seriousness, Thrall, why do these relationships fail? You're likely one of the best men I've ever known."

"Well, it's not as if I am incapable of finding a woman. It's just that when it's all said and done, she and I come to the conclusion that it isn't there, that feeling of oneness. We part our ways, no ill feelings between. Plain, but true."

"Sad is what it is, Thrall. You're the picture of Orcish, um, handsomeness, at least I guess." Her words were beginning to slide into a vernacular he only got to hear when she was drunk, "And fuck, Thrall, you've got a great personality in that green head of yours. You weren't the problem in those relationships, aside from being picky, but hey." She took another swill from the bottle. She continued to surprise him. Not only was she a whiskey woman, but she could hold it too. She had almost downed the entire bottle. Not that he was judging her, or anything, he had finished his first bottle quite some time ago.

He wasn't nearly as inebriated as she and he laughed to himself that she always brings two bottles, thinking it will be enough and then underestimates her own capabilities instead of his. He'd begun bringing some of his own, he would hate to have her hold back on his account.

He opened the orcish draught, and she eyed it with a curiosity.

He laughed, "Oh, you want to drink all of mine now, do you?"

She slapped him on the arm and chuckled, "You big green bastard! I bring you liquor all of the time and you refuse to share your own!" She was rather animated in her body language.

He looked at her with mock defeat and handed her the bottle, and she took an overly large pull, as if to prove her point.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

She swallowed hard and began to cough. Her eyes watered and Thrall held her shoulders in place, so that she might not fall over, or, or something, they were sitting but that was the least of his worries at that moment.

When her fit was over she snatched the bottle from where she had set it and eyed it with a new respect.

"Damn, Thrall, you've been holding out on me."

They then rambled on about the differences between Human and Orcish alcohols, gratefully for Thrall, leaving his relationship troubles pleasantly obscured. Because, truly, he knew the answer for their failure, and that answer he was quite happy to keep to himself.

The author would like to thank you for your continued support. Your review has been posted.